


Night Whispers

by Ricky B (littletoes101)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletoes101/pseuds/Ricky%20B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luck Gandor, a man trained to kill ever since he was a child, is called upon by a notorious cultist to kill an almost legendary gang leader, Dallas Genoard. However, it quickly becomes obvious that things are not all that they seem, as Luck and Dallas are forced to work together and are thrust into a word of secrecy, betrayal, espionage, and treachery. LuckDallas, modern day, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out like a Light

Slowly, Luck Gandor turns the golden locket over in his hands as he crouches on the roof of the building across from the bar, his rifle resting on his lap, ready for him to use it when he needs to. The locket is the only thing, besides the rifle, that Luck has of any value on his person. He doesn't carry his cellphone when he goes out on missions—it should be obvious why that would be a terrible move. There's no need for a watch. Just his coat, his hat, the locket, and his rifle. That's all he needs.

The locket is lucky. He's come to believe it; he's never failed so long as it's around his neck.

“ _Now listen here, son, this locket here is real special. As long as you've got it, you'll never fail. And one day, the locket will lead you to your soulmate. It worked for me, it'll work for you. You believe your old man, don't you, Lucky?”_

“ _Yes, Papa.”_

There's movement at the entrance of the bar, and Luck puts the locket over his head and readies the rifle, quick as a flash. There's no hesitation in his movements. He knows exactly what he's doing and knows exactly how to do this, and he's done it a million times before. From the entrance, three men stumble out. The two on either sides of the guy in the middle aren't his target, so instead he focuses on the man in between them with his arms thrown around their shoulders, laughing like he's just heard the joke of the century.

Luck lifts the muzzle of his rifle and aims carefully. There's quite a few people, but he's killed in crowds bigger than this. He almost can't believe that this guy, who looks like just another street thug, is the notorious gang leader that he's looking for, but he knows that it must be Dallas Genoard. The red bandanna tied around his throat, the studded black collar underneath it, and the open navy blue jacket that goes all the way down to his ankles gives it all away. Not to mention, his face is unmistakeable; it's plastered almost everywhere. Almost the entire city of New York is his gang's territory.

The Night Whispers. Luck knows the name well enough. Everyone in this cursed city knows them.

Just as Luck is about to pull the trigger, he stops. There's a girl, a little one with a pale yellow dress on and a purple bow in her hair and tied around her middle, and pretty blonde curls that glow in the light of the street lamps, and she runs up to Dallas, her face gleeful. What's a little girl doing out in the city at this time of night, he wonders. And what's she doing with—

Before he can finish his sentence, Dallas scoops her up in his arms and twirls her around, laughing in a different tone this time. Is she his daughter? Luck lowers the muzzle of the gun as he passes her to one of the guys, muttering something in a tone that sounds vaguely threatening. Why is Luck hesitating? It shouldn't matter that Dallas has a little girl with him. It shouldn't matter. Luck's killed fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, all kinds of people before. Why's he hesitating? Why?

And then the bastard turns, locks eyes with Luck's, and fucking _winks_ at him. All of the air leaves Luck's lungs as he looks down at the roof, his eyes wide with disbelief.

He fucking _knew_ he was there the whole time. What the hell. When Luck finally shook himself from his confused stupor, he looked up, and Dallas was gone.

Shit. Where did he go? Luck looked around, left and right, and then stood, whipping around and looking behind him.

And there he is, motherfucking Dallas Genoard, smiling the kind of smile you'd expect Satan to smile when you see him for the first time.

The gun clatters to the top of the roof and Luck's out like a light.

Figures the first time he misses a target, he'd have a fainting spell.


	2. Royal like the King

It's hard for Dallas to remember where his two personae begin and end. There's him, Dallas, of course, the cocky, arrogant bastard that most people know him as. And then there's _Genoard_ , though most people call that one Silver Blades, but Dallas wouldn't know. They don't share memories, after all, simply a body and a brain.

Ever since he was little, he'd have these awful blackouts, where he couldn't remember anything that happened during them. People used to tell him that he became a different person, a person who was much worse than he was. The doctors diagnosed him with one of the worst cases if dissociative identity disorder that they'd ever seen, and then it made sense.

At first, Dallas tried to hide the monster in side of him. He made him ashamed. He didn't want people to know that there was more than one of him, that there was another side that liked to do terrible things to people, that _wanted_ to do terrible things to people. He learned his triggers and tried to stay away from them, took his medicine like a good boy, did what he was supposed to do.

And then, when the time came, he became the second-in-command of the Night Whispers, right below his mother. Whenever she stepped down, or passed on, Dallas would become the leader. Even then, he still kept the other under control, doing his damnedest not to let _Genoard_ see the light of day.

Then Mother died.

It was then that the ties were severed, the careful ties that Dallas had placed over the other. Now, they'd merged so closely, Dallas and _Genoard_ , that he could no longer tell which one was the real him.

Sitting on the edge of his bed where another person is currently sleeping, Dallas lights a cigarette, putting it to his lips and inhaling deeply. The nicotine feels so good on his lungs, and he exhales a cloud of smoke, tilting his head back to observe the man in his bed.

The kid's name is Luck Gandor, or so he's been told. The thing has some kind of fainting disorder, whenever he gets freaked out he passes out, and he figures failing to assassinate him has something to do with that. He wonders who it could be who tried to hire someone to kill him.

He wonders if they know about the immortality, and that it'd be impossible for anyone to kill him with a gun alone.

Leaning over, Dallas sweeps a few strands of hair from Luck's face, away from the bandages around his head. He _did_ give himself a nasty concussion when he tipped over like that. He's got some serious balls to come after such a notorious man, Dallas has to give him that.

He takes one more drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the bedside trashcan, standing up and walking over to the window, watching the lights below flicker and travel. Luck'll be waking up soon.

Until then, the King watches over his domain, quiet and regal as an alpha wolf.


	3. Sly like the Fox

When Luck wakes, there’s this horrible, throbbing, aching pain in the back of his head, and he groans as he pushes himself up to rest on his shoulders. He can feel the bandages wrapped around his head, and everything is foggy in his vision. How hard did he fall? Mentally, he curses himself. Ever since he was a kid, he’s had these stupid fainting spells when he gets panicked. But what happened to make him pass…

Suddenly, the memories come rushing back, and Luck curses as he tries to fling himself out of the bed. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Where was he? This isn’t his room, he knows that much. Why’s he here? For a moment, he hopes that, maybe, one of his brothers found him and took him to their place. However, the voices on the other side of the door stop that thought in its tracks. The voices are unfamiliar, and upon finding that the lower half of his body won’t do what it’s being told, Luck falls back against the pillows and gives a long, low whine. Dammit.

“Slow down there, Sleeping Beauty,” another voice laughs, and Luck’s head snaps over to his side. He didn’t even notice that there was a man sitting there, but there he is. Dallas. He sits on a chair at Luck’s bedside, his legs crossed over each other at the knee, one of his elbows resting on his knee and his chin resting in his hand. God, that fucker looks so calm and relaxed. How could he? Luck just tried to _kill_ him, for God’s sake, and Dallas is acting like he’s some old friend. Fire burns in the pit of his belly, and Luck wrinkles his nose.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” He finally asks as soon as he’s able. “Why did you bring me here? Are you planning on torturing me, or something? I wouldn’t advise it. My brothers are probably looking for me right now.”

“Nah, I ain’t gonna kill you. I got no reason. You’re no threat to me,” Dallas says nonchalantly. Luck bristles again, pushes himself up farther so that he’s leaning against the head of the bed. “Oh, sorry, was that insulting?”

“Shut up!” Luck snaps, losing his calm demeanor for a second. It returns as quickly as it comes, and Dallas looks at him, cocks an eyebrow. “I could’ve killed you, if I wanted to.”

“And I coulda done the same thing. But I didn’t.” Luck pauses, considering. Dallas has a point. “So why didn’t you?”

Luck scrambles for an answer, wracks his brain for anything that might be sufficient for him. He goes with something cliché, but feasible. “You had your daughter with you. I didn’t want to shoot her by accident.” Dallas gives a hearty laugh, and Luck wonders if he’s seen through the lie, but Dallas just says;

“You thought she was my _daughter_? That ain’t my daughter, kid, just my niece. Her name’s Oliver, cute lil’ thing.”

“Don’t call me kid,” Luck growls, his golden fox-eyes narrowing again. Dallas finally meets his eyes. “I’m not a kid. I’m Luck Gandor.”

Dallas laughs and stands up, pushing the chair away as he rests a hand on his hip. “Alright. Whatever you want, _mister Gandor_.” He says it with an air of a sneer, a crude one appearing on his lips, and Luck’s hands grip the sheets tight. “Ah, by the way, feel free to call for someone when the medicine wears off. Eve—my sister—she gave you some painkillers. Figured you might need ‘em.” Luck opens his mouth to say something, to call for Dallas to wait, but he’s gone, the sound of the door opening and closing in his wake.


End file.
